


Extreme Measures

by vivianwithnail



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianwithnail/pseuds/vivianwithnail
Summary: Withnail offers to help. But it's always complicated with him.





	Extreme Measures

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to have something completed on my profile and also uhh anyone else in here think about the bathroom scene? Paul McGann wife city

Withnail could hear frustrated grunts coming from the bathroom, preceded and followed by what seemed the sound of a stray dog looking in a trash can. His mind would have even stopped and worried, but it was quite clear that the source of such disturbance was Marwood, desperately looking for something in the closet.   
Withnail was sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the morning paper, cigarette in his mouth, trying so hard to ignore Marwood's cries, and failing spectacularly. The pages started to crinkle under Withnail's annoyed grip, waiting for the right second of silence to finally bark at that bastard in the bathroom to keep his frustrations to himself, no matter their nature.   
Before this could happen, Marwood opened the bathroom door, releasing steam that quickly began to fog the entire apartment. Withnail turned his head in his direction, just to see him staggering, his view blocked by his bleared spectacles, one hand holding the towel wrapped precariously around his hips, another towel draped from the top of his head to his shoulder, and dripping soapy water all over the floor.

"Marwood, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I can't find the bloody shaving cream! Have you seen the shaving cream?"

"I most definitely have not. Have you looked in your bedroom?" Suggested Withnail, more interested in keeping the source of distraction away from the living room than the actual successful finding of Marwood's object of desire.

Marwood headed to his bedroom, walking on his tiptoes not to leave wet footprints, risking to slip at every step for lack of equilibrium, muttering something along the lines of "I can't see a fucking thing with these glasses!" but it was so chewed up by his nervousness that Withnail hardly caught it.

Withnail had seen it before countless times. Marwood and his anxiety outbursts, that managed to shift the mood in the entire apartment in less than a couple of minutes.  
Marwood was at his worst before an audition, like this case. It was early evening but he started getting ready around 7 am, which probably meant Marwood hadn't closed an eye the entire night. Withnail had heard him through his morning daze.

"It's not there!" Marwood exclaimed, breathless, as he rushed in the living room.  
Withnail didn't like Marwood going in his room, but he would have done everything for a little peace at that moment, so he told Marwood to look in his drawers. He was pretty sure the only things in his drawers were ripped socks. He was only interested in distracting Marwood anyway.

Withnail kept his gaze on the newspaper when Marwood came out of his room, but he couldn't ignore Marwood's presence, insistent with desperation, wordlessly asking him for help.

"Have you found it?" Withnail asked, indolent, already knowing the answer.

"What the fuck do you think? Of course it's not fucking there." Marwood let out a deep sigh, but he did not seem to calm down one bit. "Please don't tell me you let Danny use it. Withnail. Please."

"Calm down, I haven't. It must be around here somewhere, I remember seeing it not long ago."

"Fine, but where?"

"How the fuck should I know, do I look like I shave regularly?" When no reply came, he pressed on.

"Well, do I?"

"Do you seriously want me to answer that?"

"No! I want you to bloody help me!"

Marwood looked at Withnail for as long as he could, the other man's eyebrows every second closer to his hairline. Marwood really didn't need any words in these cases: Withnail was not willing to help unless an unfair deal was made. He let out an exasperated breath. He was in no state to beg, he was in a hurry and already in a middle of a panic attack.

"I'll get grass when I get home if you help me."

Withnail's attention moved completely from the newspaper as he stood up abruptly from the couch.

"The kitchen. Have you looked in the kitchen?"

"The kitchen? Why is the shaving cream in the kitchen!?"

"I wouldn't know. It's a suggestion."

They both walked into the kitchen, Withnail following Marwood's nervous pace.  Marwood was still dripping water on the kitchen's filthy tiles, the towel on his head moved on his shoulders, soaked by his wet curls. The once mint green towel on his hips was now held still by a rusty clothespin found in the depths of some drawer. He was breathless, panting, with no control over his lungs. Withnail could feel his panicked exhales on his face in the claustrophobic room. Too close, Withnail thought. The smell of cheap bar soap and cold sweat already breaking on Marwood's skin were going to make him sick and dizzy. The steam had warmed the apartment to a decent temperature, but after months of freezing cold it felt like the place had turned into a greenhouse. It was suffocating, yet Marwood's figure was shaken by waves of  shivers, his forearms covered in goosebumps. He was a sorry sight, and Withnail felt a sting of pity in the middle of his chest, but he ignored it. Marwood was looking through the clutter on the counter, numb fingers knocking over every bottle, box or dish that encountered their path. Withnail turned to actively look for the shaving cream in the pantry, careful not to completely break the door that was already half detached from its hinges. And there it was, near a couple of soup cans and a handful of loose teabags stolen from the café across the street: bright yellow with tears of rust around where there used to be a cap.

Withnail grinned, glad to be free of this chore so early. He grabbed it, and turned around to announce the finding.

"Found it! It was in the pantry."

Marwood turned, eyes delirious on the bottle, then on Withnail's face, then again on the bottle, like a hallucinated ping pong match.

"The pantry? Who the fuck put it in the pantry?" He yelled, in his usual nervous acute.

"Fuck knows. I'm not the one buying groceries." Withnail retorted, not keen on being accused when he had actually been helpful for once.

Marwood seemed on the edge of saying something that would have come out strangled and venomous, but he held back. Instead, he spasmed to take the shaving cream from Withnail's hand. But Withnail's arm instinctively retracted. The sting of pity was now burning again, lower this time, a bad taste in the back of his mouth.  
Marwood gripped the counter in which Withnail's back was resting on, to keep his equilibrium after failing to get the bottle, hand still in the air. Now his face was right below Withnail's, few inches from his chest.   
Withnail's expression betrayed stupor in his own movements, oddly still, trying to process something.   
Marwood let out a pained noise, but Withnail didn't move.

"What are you doing? Give me the fucking shaving cream! Quit playing, Withnail!" Marwood cried, but Withnail wasn't persuaded. "What do you want now!?"

Withnail's mouth bent in an awkward position, like it was about to let out a particularly painful or disgusting sound.

"I'm not letting you anywhere near a razor in this state." He said.

"What!?"

Marwood seemed on the brink of nervous tears, and Withnail would have lied to himself if he said that he didn't find the situation weirdly satisfying. For once, he was the one lucid enough to care for the other. Care. He tried not to think of all the times when Marwood took care of him when he was drunk or his brain was reduced to a muddy puddle of chemicals. It was humiliating, almost. This was revenge, Withnail told himself. Repayment. So he wasn't indebted to Marwood anymore.

"Look at you, you're shaking for five different reasons! You're in no state to hold a blade! I'm not going to clean up your blood or worse, carry your lifeless body in a plastic bag down the stairs because you've slitted your throat in a spasm! We don't even have plastic bags!" Withnail hated how worried he sounded. It wasn't him.  "How will I be able to discard your corpse without raising suspicion? I can't even say you're drunk because you'll have a bleeding fucking slash across your throat!" Withnail realized he was almost screaming.   
Marwood was left speechless, unsure if he should feel offended, grateful, or just plain confused, because Withnail wasn't really making sense.

"Well, I have to shave, don't I? Just give me the shaving cream, Withnail."

"No." He said as he shook his head, stubborn.

"I have an audition across the city in a hour and a half, can you please just stop being a child for once?" Marwood cried.

"How dare you! I'm not being childish, I'm trying to save you from certain death!" Withnail exclaimed, and then looked like he was about to say something drastic for a second, which resulted in Marwood's desperate gaze. He wasn't in the mood for Withnail's theatrical exploits. Before he could say anything, Withnail continued:

"Let me shave you."

Marwood looked at him, mouth open in disbelief, waiting for a contrasting statement that would have turned the previous one in a joke. But it never came.

"No way. No fucking way." Marwood breathed out, incredulous.

"Why not? My hands are still. Yours aren't. At least not at the moment. I'm doing you a favour, Marwood." He said calmly.

"There's no way in hell that I'm letting you near my face with a blade!" Marwood hissed, stopping a second to look at Withnail's entire figure, as to underline the fact that his mere appearance was unreliable.

"That's too bad then. If you don't want me to shave you, then you have three options: you either go to that audition looking like a clochard, or you shave without cream - and I don't advise it- or you don't go, which, in my opinion, is the wisest choice in this case, because they're not even going to let you inside the theater looking like that." He concluded by imitating Marwood's sufficient stare, but his eyes only saw a hostile figure hunched by the cold and the strained nerves that looked seconds away from properly hissing at him. It would have been borderline comical if Withnail's throat weren't so dry.

Then Withnail forced his way out of the kitchen, the hand holding the shaving cream ridiculously raised above his head, Marwood following him for lack of better ideas. As soon as he realized that Withnail was headed for the bathroom, he increased his pace and reached the sink first, grabbing the razor desperately with both hands.   
Withnail genuinely smirked.

"What do you think you're doing? Are you threatening me with a blunt razor?" He scoffed, amused.

"I most certainly am, and I swear to God Withnail, if you don't hand me the shaving cream right now I'll be the one carrying your lifeless body down the stairs!" Marwood threatened.

"I'd like to see you try."  Withnail retorted.

They looked at each other in silence for a couple of seconds, then Withnail took advantage of Marwood's less than brilliant conditions to steal the razor from his hands, something that wasn't as easy as he thought, because Marwood's anxious grip was fierce, yet his hands were slick with sweat, so after a brief scuffle with their hands, that consisted in Withnail's free hand to grasp both of Marwood's right underneath the blade, careful not to cut himself. With a final tug Withnail came in possession of the razor, and Marwood let out a final wretched yelp.

"Now, are you going to stay still?" Withnail asked, not hiding his victorious smile.

"I'd rather have my throat slashed." Marwood spat out with vitriol.

Withnail stopped for a second, every remain of what he had felt in the last minutes vanished. His face was calm, betrayed nothing but complete control. He looked at Marwood, still shivering and looking at him as he just had murdered his entire family in front of his eyes. When Withnail spoke, it came out softer than he meant it to be:

"Would you, really?"

So Marwood had to stop for a second and actually look at Withnail. Marwood could have been delirious all right, but he knew Withnail and he knew what he was doing.

"Don't you - dare, Withnail. I know what you're doing and I am not falling for it! This is about shaving cream, for fuck's sake!" Marwood warned him. Withnail was an able manipulator only if you didn't know him.

"Seriously, Marwood, do you trust me that little?" He continued, uncaring of Marwood's accusations.   
He knew what Marwood meant, but this was different. He had offered to help, and yes, he hadn't been completely gentlemanly about it, but Marwood should have been in no position to refuse. Withnail didn't know where this bout of altruism came from, but he had to admit it was more entertaining than he thought it would be.

"I wouldn't trust you with a paperclip!" Marwood replied, hostile.

Withnail looked at Marwood for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes. He looked so tired, his nerves had drained him. He wasn't shaking as hard now, but he wasn't well either. And there it came, his blind devotion, his wrong mannered affection, his ill infatuation. If Marwood had been the one asking Withnail whether he trusted him, he would have replied  _it doesn't matter_ , because Withnail would have let him slit his throat. It was in moments like these, when Marwood wasn't making sense, and he was doing nothing but spitting venom at him, that Withnail knew he was his. Because Marwood would have left, and when he came back he would have been either full of cheer, maybe bringing a bottle of wine home, and they would have toasted, for how bitterly, and they would have talked and joked together about theater and everything else. Or he would have come home defeated, sometimes already drunk, sometimes bringing the necessary to achieve that state throughout the night. Then Withnail would have been there for him, keeping his hair out of the way, dragging his half dead weight to his bed, and maybe he would have stayed there, playing with his curls, but not after two in the morning, because that's when shame would have started gnawing at his belly.

"Do you really think I could hurt you?" Withnail asked, and this time it came out so sadly, so apologetic, that Marwood stopped.

_Yes. Yes you could harm me in a million different ways with that razor and without, because you don't know how to act like an adult and yes, you know your actions have consequences but you just don't care, as you wouldn't care if you hurt me, right, Withnail?_

"No." He sighed out. He could have said what he thought, but why? Withnail was right. He was shaking, after all.

"Do you trust me?" Withnail asked again, and they were both aware of how holy it sounded in that moment, how unnecessarily solemn.

_No I don't, you fucking lunatic, you licensed madman, you would sell your own family for a bottle of wine! You would shove me under a car if we ever found each other in competition!_

"All right." Marwood said at last, utterly drained.

Withnail looked stupidly surprised for a second, sight which made Marwood's mood improve a bit.

Marwood sat on the edge of the bathtub and shifted the towel on his shoulders so it was covering his collarbone and chest. He spread his legs, waiting for Withnail to roll up his sleeves.

"Pass the shaving cream. I can manage that far." He said. Everything that happened before gone, like every fight they had.

"No way. I want to do it. Take off  your glasses."

Marwood obliged. Withnail sounded neutral, as if he was a normal person doing a friend a simple favour. He also seemed really serious about it, as if he had something to prove to Marwood.   
Withnail turned to face Marwood and took an awkward step between his legs, trying to find a comfortable enough position. As he kept the razor in his shirt's pocket, he started applying the shaving cream on Marwood's face, as carefully and evenly as he could. Marwood tried to help by bending his head so Withnail didn't have to move in an unnatural way to spread the foam on his neck.   
Marwood was still scared of the combination of Withnail and razor, but he closed his eyes, hoping it would have helped Withnail feeling less observed.

Withnail took Marwood's closed eyes as an invitation to proceed, so he started by delicately lifting Marwood's chin with his finger, not too imposing, and shaved a first section with a careful stroke. Marwood's exposed skin was already starting to redden and probably itch.   
Marwood's breath was coming out of his nose, heavy but regular, and Withnail could feel it on his hands, as he could feel Marwood's faint shaking few inches from him. He couldn't afford to linger on such sweet thoughts. After shaving his neck, Withnail moved to Marwood's face, but there were no tensed muscles to keep the skin still, so he put a hand on the back of his neck, still covered by Marwood's damp hair.  
Marwood let out a short sound, more in acknowledgement than anything else, as if to say that he was aware that Withnail's hand was on his neck, and he was to a certain extent alright with what was happening. But the result was different from the intention, and Marwood quickly felt a rush of embarrassment crawl from his belly to his cheeks. He opened his eyes to see if it was safe to move his head without risking being cut. Withnail's hand was still on his neck, but when he opened his eyes he felt it retract, and Withnail's face was surely more distant than it was when he had the razor on his skin. Marwood looked at him, and he looked puzzled rather than embarrassed.

"Is everything fine?" Withnail asked.

Marwood tried to say yes, but he found out that he had something stuck in his throat. So he cleared it and replied:

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Hold still, I'm almost finished."

Marwood closed his eyes again and Withnail let out the breath he was holding as silently as he could. It was killing him, being allowed to touch Marwood in a way that it had been allowed him only in secrecy and filled with guilt. Marwood looked so vulnerable and harmless with the weight of his head leaning on his hand.   
The evening rain was pouring right outside that cube of perfect stillness, the warm tones of the naked light bulb above them not strong enough to cover the milky white glow coming from the swollen clouds. It made Marwood look sick, with his pale complexion and eyes framed by red, his hair like opaque brass sticking to his forehead. Withnail's breath quickened, but managed to control it as he moved the razor along Marwood's cheekbone. The dozen strokes he needed to shave Marwood completely seemed to take forever. In the meantime, the hand on Marwood's neck was now tangled in his hair, the only relief he could get.

"Very well, let me wipe the shaving cream off and we're done" announced Withnail, "It wasn't so bad, was it?" but as he said this his grip did not loosen, and his voice was unsteady. Marwood felt the words on his skin, so Withnail's face couldn't have been too far. His speculations were confirmed when he opened his eyes. Withnail was close, warmer than him, his breathing as laboured as his, and as flushed as his body allowed him to be, which was very little, but still noticeable from that distance.

"Withnail, there's no need, I can do that." Tried Marwood, taking the towel from his chest, hoping to put an end to an awkward situation.

"Marwood, please, I want to do this. Let me do this." Withnail said, faking control, taking the towel from Marwood's hands, and kneeling at his feet.  
Withnail's movements were incredibly soft and slow, and Marwood appreciated the attention to his sensitive skin. Maybe this hadn't been as terrible as he had imagined it. It had been odd seeing Withnail almost begging to do something that had nothing in it for him.

Withnail was driving himself insane. There was no shaving cream left on Marwood's face, and his skin looked so smooth and tender with irritation. Marwood was breathing regularly now, his eyes still closed, eyelids trembling, almost transparent.   
It felt like a lucid dream when his lips pressed on the corner of Marwood's, and for a fraction of second nothing happened, no reaction, as if it was due, awaited. But it wasn't, and Marwood immediately stiffened, which was a more polite reaction than Withnail expected. Withnail then moved his head on Marwood's shoulder, not looking at him, getting as much contact as he could before he would have been pushed away and yelled at, mentally preparing himself for an evening of wound licking and self pity. Withnail knew boundaries, but it was impossible not to overstep them when they were just a metaphorical plow sign on the ground.

Marwood grabbed Withnail's shoulders, but Withnail decided not to move untill the push would have become insistent. But it didn't.

"Withnail... "

Marwood tried to find the right words, but nothing sounded appropriate at the moment. He couldn't say he hadn't seen it coming, he knew that sooner or later Withnail's poor impulse control would have had the best of him. And Withnail was so painfully homosexual that he often wondered how he could tell anyone with a straight face about all the Lizzies, the Peggys and the Sandras that he had supposedly romanced and discarded. Marwood concluded that it must be part of his theatrical nature. Marwood was also expecting Withnail to make a move on him. The thought didn't particularly scare him, it was all about firmly but kindly saying that Marwood saw him as a good friend, and he didn't feel the same way about him. Even if back then he thought that rather than feelings, alcohol would have been more likely involved. But in hindsight, he didn't expect Withnail to be so... selfless, so innocent about it. More than anything that he ever experienced, those lips on his, that man almost weeping on his shoulder, it felt like a confession. And considering how Withnail hadn't stopped muttering how he was sorry since it happened, it probably was.

"Withnail, it's alright, just..."

Marwood didn't have it in him to push Withnail away. He was hoping he would realize his mistake and remove himself spontaneously.  
Withnail was too scared to look at Marwood, so he kept still, but his litany of regret was becoming slurred, losing coherence, and it soon turned into kisses, alternated to barely audible words of apology. Marwood wished he would just stop, stop because he was in a hurry, and this wasn't right, and his hands moved from Withnail's shoulders to his slicked back hair, holding him, because honesty is in the flesh. He didn't want Withnail to stop and ask, he didn't want to lie but he didn't want to say it out loud.

Marwood turned his head to meet Withnail's mouth, and he was just as apologetic as him, as his lips tried, unsure. Withnail didn't really know how to answer that if not by kissing back, incredulous, careful. Despite Withnail's scruff and the taste of shaving cream in both their mouths, they stayed like that for a couple of minutes, in which Withnail sometimes moved his attention to Marwood's jaw and neck, to return to his mouth shiny with spit and red a few seconds after, as if it was intoxicating.

Marwood then slowly pulled away, and pushed Withnail away by his shoulders, less imposing this time. He didn't want to stop, not really. When the push came to shove, there was no repulsion if not the one driven by common sense. Marwood hadn't been able to tell his attraction to Withnail until he felt his skin on his. And it only made sense, he thought. All those years of holding him back from doing something incredibly stupid, of so tender touches and gestures driven by pity and necessity that appeared so honest back then, they all came back to burn in that moment. Withnail already had him, what could a few kisses change?

"Withnail, we can't. Not right now. I've got an audition, remember?" He almost whispered.

Withnail didn't look hurt. For once, he understood, sniffled and stood to his feet clumsily, embarrassed. Marwood was still sitting on the bathtub, not panting, not nervous, but a bit disheveled.

"You can walk me to the theater if you want." He proposed, and there was so much hanging between them that it was hard not to give that sentence a hidden meaning.

"It's quite alright. I'll wait here." Withnail replied, but there was a smile hidden somewhere between those words, and at that time Marwood didn't have to know.

Marwood just nodded and headed to his room to get dressed, and Withnail was left with only the white stillness of the bathroom. He washed the towel and the razor and put the shaving cream in the right place, in the bathroom closet.   
He got to the couch gingerly, as if his legs were numb. He picked up the newspaper, but the words hardly reached his eyes.

Marwood came out of his bedroom few minutes later, hair finally dry and combed neatly, wearing that suit that was a clutter of colours almost physically painful to the eye. His mouth was still red, Withnail noticed.

Marwood checked if everything was in place in his coat's pockets, and when satisfied he headed for the door.

"See you in a couple of hours." Said Marwood, too neutral to appear natural.

"Good luck, Marwood." Withnail said back, looking at him directly, he wanted Marwood to see he meant it. Marwood then stopped for a second, as if he had forgotten something. He walked behind the couch and bent to kiss Withnail on the cheek, then rushed for the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This was extremely self indulgent and unrealistic


End file.
